


A Pinch of Salt

by Double-O-Everything (SuperSilverSpy)



Category: Alex Rider - Anthony Horowitz
Genre: 2020, Alex Rider Gets Closure, Alex Rider Needs a Hug, Alex Rider Whump, Alex Rider and his knives, Alex Rider has PTSD, Alex Rider is Salty, Alex Rider is So Done, Alex Rider is a Mess, Alex Rider-centric, Angst, BAMF Alex Rider, Brass knuckles, Dark Alex Rider, Fic Exchange, Fights, Gen, Guns, Holiday Fic Exchange 2020, Hurt Alex Rider, Hurt No Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, I almost went all out with that one, I can’t help it, I know it’s not Christmas anymore, I made a, I swear that tag will catch on, Injury, Jokes, Julia Rothman Jr., K-Unit - Freeform, Knives, Longest One-shot I Ever Wrote, OC, OC thugs - Freeform, OCC - Freeform, OFC - Freeform, Objectification, Powerful Alex Rider, Prompt Fill, SAS, Salt, Sarcasm, Scorpia - Freeform, SilverRider, Snark, Snarky Alex Rider, Soldiers, SpyFest Holiday Fic-Exchange (Alex Rider), SuperSilverSpy, Torture, Weapons, Whump, and ever plan to have written, and then I killed her, and wow am I late, because Eagle, bullet wounds, but i tried, crossposted to fanfiction.net, for fun, he doesn’t really get one..., he’s just so fun to whump, idk - Freeform, ish, it was a near thing, just be glad they don’t call him an “it”, my little murder baby, puns, so cute, there’s a little bit of comfort...?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-17 05:14:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,973
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28719471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SuperSilverSpy/pseuds/Double-O-Everything
Summary: “They’ve sent us reinforcements, several SAS teams that specialize in hostage situations. Blunt wants his agent back.”OR How Alex Got His Snark BackWritten for Holiday Fic-Exchange 2020(So very sorry for being late)
Relationships: Alex Rider & Ben “Fox” Daniels, Alex Rider & Eagle, Alex Rider & Snake, Alex Rider & Wolf
Comments: 15
Kudos: 77





	A Pinch of Salt

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah...life happened  
> That’s why I’m like two weeks late  
> Oof, it sounds so bad when I say it like that  
> Anyway  
> Merry belated Christmas and happy belated holidays!  
> This turned out to be so much longer than I planned  
> But I tried  
> Enjoy!

He knew it was a bad idea, but said nothing about it, it was not his place to. Agent West was a good man, a smart man, an excellent operative, but even the best fell—  _ especially _ the best. The agent had indeed fallen, and left everything in his wake to go to sh**. Once, Agent R would’ve been angry, would have let his vision cloud with it. He’d curse those cocky Americans in every language he knew for getting him into this, curse them for overestimating their own and sending him in blind.

Now, though, there are too many things to curse about, a far more extensive list of swears than he would have once even imagined. There’s no point anymore, hasn’t been for years. His cover’s been blown for the hundredth time, and R just takes it in stride. This situation is more familiar to him than any other after all, he knows what to do.

“You’re not who you say you are.”

“I’ve been caught, then?” he asks calmly, ready. 

“Give up, it’s too late. There’s no way you’re getting out of here alive.”

“Who says I want to?” He takes off. Dashing through gray halls flashing with crimson lights, alarms reverberating through his person. R runs, leaving a trail of efficiently dispatched guards in his wake. 

The objective is priority, first and foremost, he needs to get the information back to his current superiors. His own safety isn’t considered, nothing more than the instinctive ducking and dodging of bullets and blades. Anything beyond that hasn’t mattered since before he can remember.

Around the corner, fire bullet after bullet into flesh and skull. Pick up another gun, keep going. Grazes are ignored, he’s hardly even aware of them. When one actually hits, it’s straight through his arm, a clean shot, as he’d known it would be. 

There’s no way he’ll make it out, not with his arm in such a state. They’ll be able to take him down that much faster. The information is registered, and promptly pushed aside. He sees the exit, just ahead, blue skies and freedom. 

Agent R swerves.

They stop pursuing him, ignorant as they are. He makes it to the tower, footsteps quieter than the drop of a feather. Up the stairs, kill the guard, only one thought in his head.

A USB in a hidden pocket, loaded with nefarious plans and incriminating evidence. Five seconds for it to download, five for it to be received, and five for the room to close and fill with gas. As per his instructions, to transmit imperative information as fast as possible if found.

There was never an extraction plan. With Rider, there is no need.

  
  
  


* * *

  
  
  


A helicopter touches down, and she gets out. Shoes clicking smartly against the ground in the midst of several thugs’ own heavy stomps. Through hallway after hallway, stepping easily over each corpse, she acts as if they aren’t there.

They meet no opposition all the way to the control room. Anyone they do run into is already on their side, and they quietly slip away. Informing the others no doubt, there’s been a change in plans, in command, as a matter of fact.

Doors  _ slammed  _ open, stunned failures looking up, “What are you—”

Five bodies drop to the ground, she keeps her weapon out. Looks to the others who’d been in the room before, gauging carefully their reaction to watching the so-called man in charge fall so readily, along with his most trusted associates and high-ranking officials.

“Incompetent fools,” she intones coldly, turning her gaze on the rest. That, and the long silver tattoo along her arm seals the deal, her sleeve rolled up to reveal all the proof they need.

Scorpia never forgets, Scorpia never forgives.

  
  


* * *

  
  


In a grey building known only for a boring trade, in a room coloured much the same, sits a drably clothed man—who also appears quite,  _ grey.  _ Another man enters the room, office more like, and takes a seat. He’s new, and fidgety. Unused to conversions such as this.

“Sir, Rider’s been compromised. A high ranking official from the remains of Scorpia went in and took over.”

“Rider can handle himself.” Says Alan Blunt, head of MI6. His tone and demeanor certainly live up to his last name, and reputation.

“But sir, shouldn’t we—” Someone has some things to learn, about how things are done around here.

“We wait, and we analyze the data he worked so hard to get.”

“How did you—” It has only just come in, and he’s the only one to report in, so far as he’s aware.

“We’ve just received it from the Americans, with parts missing no doubt. It will look as if they’re not sending us everything, but rest assured,  _ my  _ top operative always succeeds.” Sure, why wouldn’t he, it’s not like they’re talking about a seventeen year old kid here…oh wait.

“That’s how you knew.”

“Of course, and you’ll find information within information. No intelligence agency can hide things from us, not with Agent R.”

  
  


* * *

“They’ll know of your previous plans by now, scrap them immediately.”

Her subordinates scramble to do as they’re told. Casting looks her way, ones varying from questioning to downright malicious. No, that would not do.

“The CIA has set up camp in a town nearby, the unused firepower from your last  _ failure _ will go towards a new project, we must prepare for attack. They’ll be wanting their little spy back, but  _ we will strike first. _ In preparation, of course.” She smiles at them, it is not a pleasant one, nor does she intend it to be.

They weren’t expecting it, and she takes advantage. Her people pop out all through the town, guns-a-blazing. She knew they wouldn’t remain undetected for long, but it’s long enough. She’s already through with phase one. The CIA retreat, regrouping as her lackeys get to work.

Bombs in well placed positions, the last of the intelligence imbeciles that hadn’t made it out being eliminated as she speaks, “Let’s go!”

Oh wait, is that…a school. It’s brimming with people, people in a building her own had rigged to blow. Some sort of parent-teacher conference thing, half the village, children included. 

It’s not out of the goodness of her heart, no...it’s that these lives mean something to her only because they do to her enemies and that, that is leverage. 

Her lieutenant notices her hesitation, “General?”

They have the time, they have the space, she tells them to go for it. People move pretty fast when there’s a gun in their face, or more specifically, their children’s faces. Into the same trucks that had brought the explosives, they drive away as the town burns behind them.

Julia Rothman Jr. is not to be messed with.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“They’ve sent us reinforcements, several SAS teams that specialize in hostage situations. Blunt wants his agent back.”

“And he’ll get him back!” Head of Operations, CIA, Mitchel Peters is not a patient man, nor is he a particularly kind one, but his efficiency is unparalleled. That is what got him the job in the first place, and he’s determined not to lose it.

Come midnight, two dozen soldiers fly in, likely from Six’s closest secret base where they’d been just waiting for him to fail. Well it wasn’t his fault! It’s that idiotic tea drinking weapon of Blunt’s. Sure, the information was supposedly transmitted by the boy, and blaming America’s best no less. Mitchel had been assured of the capability of the agent, as R has quite the reputation, but it seems he was not up to the task. Gleefully sending Six only half the data  _ had  _ calmed Peters down, all the way up to those f***in terrorists showing up, attacking  _ his  _ camp and taking hostages; what a sh**show.

A man steps down, leading three teams of four soldiers out. He’s a force to be reckoned with, Mitchel finds, as the guy quickly takes charge. Information he can't possibly know used to make battle plans that aren’t even half bad.

“Sergeant Weston,” he introduces himself, before leveling Peters with a cold look, and walking away.

Mitchel Peters hates many things about him instantly, and the list is only growing, but his least favorite thing so far would be the man’s obvious favoritism towards one unit in particular...K-Unit.

  
  


* * *

  
  


He comes to awareness abruptly, the aftereffects of drugs clearing from his mind. It sets him on edge, though his body wouldn’t show it. To anyone else he looks for all the world like the unconscious captive the enemy would always prefer him to be.

Grips around all four limbs are vice like, smashing them in on all sides. So tight are the restraints that his arms are going slowly numb from cut-off circulation. His legs will follow suit soon enough. 

Pain in his upper arm, inconsequential yet noted, as everything else he’s aware of is. All of it: the steady dripping of a liquid somewhere, the heavy stomping of boots against concrete echoing outside of his presumed cell, the familiar tang of blood, and a dirtiness that only comes from conditions such as these, as well as the aforementioned squeezing of four important limb—every little thing is observed and known the moment he wakes up.

From then on, it’s a waiting game, and he doesn’t have to wait long. Not that he couldn’t wait weeks while tucked away in his mind, ready to emerge fully functional at any moment. 

Ice cold water, splashing across his face. R fakes waking up, spluttering a bit and appearing beaten down. Having perfected and prepared the look in advance, he lets himself slowly slip into the teenager persona, albeit a bitter and depressed one.

“What do you want?” he asks with a scowl, tugging at the chains. His body forms an X with a chain leading from each leg to the floor, and two more from each arm to the ceiling. The chains feed into the manacle-like contraptions. That’s what the weight is from, metal bands like vices encircling his arms and legs, to keep him in place and supposedly unable to escape.

The newcomers leave his question unanswered, instead getting straight to the beating. Punch to the gut, controlled muscles purposely not contracting. Kick to the metal around his left leg, which apparently isn’t that thick. Right hook to the face, and that will be a black eye. It’s nothing he can’t handle, treatment he’s not unused to. He’s killed plenty while bearing worse wounds than this. As it goes on, there’s a figure in the doorway, watching.

The cool metal restraining him does turn out to have an alternative purpose. He finds this out pretty quickly when they use it to electrocute him. All pain which had previously been ignored, and taken readily—though not from his enemy’s point of view—hardly compares to what he’s experiencing now. Electricity traveling along his frame is not uncommon for situations like this, and yet each time when the voltage is higher he cannot avoid a truly pain-induced reaction. When it ends, lip bloody by his own teeth, body trembling with aftershocks, he’s a little more affected by the beatings that continue, and it shows.

Someone goes to punch him again, right in the jaw, but he bites the appendage as it comes towards his face. Teeth sinking into flesh, dragging along skin and brass. He strains forward against the chains, using whatever strength he can gather in one, last, desperate act of rebellion. The howl of pain reaches his ears as he grins viciously, the sound makes its way to the enemy in the shadows as well, because she comes out into the light.

Auburn hair, dark, dangerously glittering eyes, stunning in appearance. The predatory way she walks, the weapons along her belt, jacket, and within her boots, the hint of welsh in her voice as she speaks, “ _ Watch it. _ ” Even the hiss of those words, all of it gives him a slight sense of deja vu. Agent R has never been one to forget a face.

He gets a perfectly framed glimpse of it too, when she walks up to him and a rough, calloused hand slaps across his face. Head thrown to the side with the whiplash, he turns it back, open-mouthed in not entirely faked surprise. It’s the left side too, where the thug would have otherwise hit him. The blood trickling in rivulets down his face from where her long nails clawed through his skin—it stings. 

She reaches into a pouch at her belt and literally throws salt at the wounds. He barely closes his eyes in time. Even as she exits the room, Rothman’s expression is yet unsatisfied.

  
  


* * *

  
  


They got Fox back, miraculously. After so many years, their schedules different, only getting called when the injury is fatal. He’s still the same old Fox, even if his eyes are a little wearier, smile a little tighter, demeanor much more closed off. Wolf runs them through some drills, just to get back into the swing of things. They click together like puzzle pieces, working like a well oiled machine. He’d never liked Fox’s replacement anyway; no one could measure up.

While he’s glad to have everyone back together again, he can’t help but wonder the reason why. Their long-lost fourth member had said he needed a break, something nice and easy with them. He’d laughed it off, played it as a joke, but Wolf isn’t so sure. MI6 is a crafty bunch, not to be trusted for anything even resembling the truth. It makes something curl in his gut to think that Fox is now one of them.

Eagle appears ecstatic to see the man, after all, the other two members of the team don’t know how to take a joke, or even crack a decent one as far as he’s concerned. Wolf has too much of a temper, always a gruff seriousness about him. Snake is the goody two shoes, can always be counted on to pull Eagle back from the brink. It’s not the same, never has been, never will be. Now his joking buddy is back. His  _ friend  _ is back. They’re all closer than close, thick as thieves, brothers in arms. Brothers however, does not always mean friends. Even he can tell that there’s something off though, something Fox isn’t telling them. He lets it go, if the man is keeping secrets there must be a good reason, and he trusts his judgement.

As far as Snake’s concerned, as long as whatever Fox is hiding doesn’t get any of them hurt or killed, he’s mostly fine with it. They were always the two level-headed ones in the group, and he respects their fourth member for it, always has. That ability to joke around and let loose while on base, and still keep a cool head out in the field. Snake has always had that practicality, that logical reasoning in the face of danger and anything else he might encounter—he’s nearly the same on and off the field.

Ben Daniels is aware that a certain Cub is part of his mission—that he has special orders apart from the rest of them to rescue Alex—and it makes his blood boil to know that he is the only one. Agent Rider is the world’s greatest spy and all, but as far Fox is concerned, he’s still just a kid, a seventeen-year-old one at that. He feels somewhat bad about lying to his team, but he knows it’s for the best-that they don’t find out, as they likely won’t anyway. The operative they run into will be just that, and  _ years _ older than when they last saw him. Ben knows that with all that time, and the disguise the kid is likely to be in, that his unit won’t recognize their dear old Cub. 

  
  


* * *

  
  
  
When he’d bitten that hand, that fist aimed towards his face, it was because of the brass knuckles. He recognized them right away of course, they were the kind that came with an inbuilt knife—his favorite kind. When he’d strained forward, it was to catch said weapon with his foot. 

Now, still hanging, and staring at it balanced precariously on top of one booted right foot, R gathers his strength. One shot at this, and only one, such is the life that he lives. A metallic flash in the air, and he thinks faintly of Mr. Grin as it is caught, and once again in his mouth, clenched between aching incisors. His tongue searches for the mechanism, maneuvering the weapon around in his mouth. Then angling it outwards, just barely still trapped between his teeth, it flicks open. The combined suddenness and nicking of his own skin, the corner of his lips—is enough to draw blood. It nearly causes him to drop it, but he doesn’t.

No, he’s too good for that.

Metal releases one arm with a hiss. It buzzes and sends pain coursing through. He ignores it, forces the limb to move. Grabs the knife from his mouth and gets to work on his right arm as well. Falling towards the floor, reflexes nearly too slow to catch himself with his left arm in time. Scooting back, pushing any and all pain aside as he only knows how.

First one leg, then the other. Ten seconds. Listen to the patrol outside his cell. Get up, get out and get ready to go. 

Sneaking through hallways, down corridors, past room after room. Into several of them, he knows his way around. As many things as possible are sabotaged before alarms start blaring. Before he has to kill. It’s exactly the same as before, except for this time, he’s not holding back. This time, he intends to escape. With most of their security protocols shut down, and R on a rampage, they don’t stand a chance.

Sure, he’s a little slower, with the occasional unintentioned spasm. There’s a bullet wound, poorly dressed, on his arm. None of it stops him from slashing throats left and right. Sinking the blade into flesh and tearing. Kicking and punching and shooting his way along. They rush at him, failing one after another as he uses their own weapons against them. He’s too quick. One moment, they’re running, and the next—dead at his feet, in the dust at his heels.

  
  


* * *

  
  
There’s some sort of distraction on the base. The enemy is in a frenzy. Alarms blaring, thugs running around shouting. Many of their defenses are down. Fox observes as Sergeant makes the executive decision to use the distraction to their advantage, sending in three of their own units to add to the chaos. K-Unit trailing behind in the wake, with their own special mission.

He applauds the man’s decision, knows that this is likely Alex’s doing and exactly what the boy would intend for them to do. Wolf takes the lead, refraining from rushing headlong into battle as he might’ve once done The man really has changed. 

“Fox, at my right. Eagle to my left. Snake, watch our six.”

The three of them nod in affirmation, gripping their weapons as they make their way towards the compound. It’s an ugly thing, the rough gray of concrete in stark contrast to the green and bleached yellow country land around it. Practically windowless, and the ones there are, are small, heavily reinforced, and one-way. Built like a castle, a fortress, a prison. With a long, thick wall all around, towers and turrets, countless guards and workers within.

K-Unit steps over plenty of their bodies as they walk in.

Intel says there are at least four good places to hide hostages, intel gathered by a certain teenage spy no doubt, of whom they have yet to see any sign. They run into some trouble, half a dozen poorly trained and outmatched, trouble that is dealt with quickly and efficiently. Ah, it is good to be back with a team again. He’d missed having people who’d watch his back.

The first destination is a bust. A room large enough for massive storage, yet empty of what they came for. There are plenty of containers with cargo that is surely illegally acquired though.

They make it to the second place, yet another room similar to the first in size and that it’s devoid of hostages. This one has damaged equipment scattered all about. Fox recognizes Alex’s handiwork and hides his smirk. Everything was going well, all things considering. It could certainly be worse. Just when the thought crossed through his mind, as it is spoken aloud foolishly by Eagle—the alarms that had previously been blaring cease, and the explosions begin. There’s a familiar shout of pain to his left, then darkness.  
  


* * *

  
  


R feels something, and it’s strange. He wasn’t sure he was capable of such a feat anymore. It pricks at him vaguely, this—this  _ sensation _ of...of annoyance. He disposes of it immediately to focus on the task at hand, or more specifically, the rapidly developing situation he finds himself in. It’s a familiar one, yes, but nothing gets to him like endangering the lives of others,  _ especially  _ civilians.

That is precisely what this threat dares to do. He’s looking forward to making her pay. They’d closed in, a dozen of them all around.  _ She’d  _ stepped forward, pushing two little boys forth,  _ prodding  _ them with the business ends of two very serious pistols. Locked, loaded,  _ and  _ cocked. It appears that she thought of everything. 

Shortly after this development, the flashing red and resounding buzzer stops abruptly, as the calm before the storm. The ground shakes, and he resists the urge to hit the floor, keeping his cool before the Rothman standing in his way.

“Your mother died a quick death, I’ll not offer you the same mercy.”

She taps the muzzle against the twin boy to the left, turning it to press further into the kid’s head. Agent R ignores the following whimper, face carefully blank, stoic as ever.

“Ha, I thought you might remember this face. She did a number on you after all, and I intend to do much more.”

“All the bombs that destroy your own building, are they supposed to scare me?” he asks, somewhat wanting to know, biding his time, and playing his part.

“Oh no, they’re not for you darling, you’re not that special. She smirks at him, teeth glinting cruelly even in the dim light. “Those are reserved for the so-called rescue party they sent in. Not for you I’m afraid, but for so many others without a hope of getting out alive.”

Her voice drips with poisonous honey, malice in every word. Hostages, the word sends a million thoughts sparking throughout his brain. Cold as death, empty brown eyes betray nothing as he calculates and schemes, analyzes and plans, coming to a decision instantly.

“They’re not dead, are they?” he asks as if bored, tone maddeningly apathetic. “No, you’re too smart for that. In that  _ so-called  _ secret underground bunker I presume then? Block C 573?”

“And wouldn’t you like to know?” She huffs, indignant. Then, eyes widening as she realizes her mistake. Hands shaking, fingers tightening on the triggers—

He grins a knowing grin, “Well this has been fun, but I really should be on my way. Nefarious plots to spoil and all. See ya!”

This was once his favorite part, now it’s just acting. It has been a while though, from the last time he was able to interact with an opponent like this. R doesn’t allow himself to enjoy it.

Explosions all around, dust and debris raining down. Her surprise and hesitation works to his advantage, just as the rubble crashing into her does. Two kids safely in his arms, he dives down a secret tunnel, leaving his enemies all to be buried alive.

It was part of his plan of course, Alex had known she’d want to confront him eventually, and he’d wanted to do it on his own turf, though the hostages were unexpected.

No matter, he has plans to foil. _ Everything always works out well for him _ , he grins viciously at the thought.

* * *

  
  
  


Wolf growls, this is not going well. Armed guards had appeared out of nowhere, rushing in after the initial explosions, and debris had fallen on Eagle, trapping him. Gesturing to Snake who was already on his way over to their fallen comrade, he and Fox moved forward to protect them.

B-Unit and L-Unit run around corners behind them to take up positions, firing through the smoke. A grenade is thrown towards them, rolling to stop near Fox’s feet. He kicks it away and they move back as well, throwing themselves to the ground as far away as possible. Guess all that training was good for something.

Shouts and cries of pain fill the air, as the familiar smell of gunpowder and blood permeates it. The ground rocks with yet another explosion. Wolf curses, ducking, a bullet barely misses his head. He lifts his gun and fires back, satisfaction entering his system when he sees two enemy soldiers fall. It’s short lived though, as four more take their place.

Looking across the room, to where Fox is crouched behind his own convenient barriers with L-Unit, wincing as the man standing next to him is cut down in a spray of blood. Ben doesn’t react. Just keeps on firing, the fallen soldier unacknowledged on the ground. Wolf didn’t know the guy very well, sure, but the sight still makes him angry, and another three scumbags suffer for it. Snake joins him behind his crate, looking stoic as always.

“How is he?”

“He’ll live. Eagle’s too stubborn to die.”

Snake watches as a little of the tension leaves his leader’s shoulders, and they turn back to the fight. Eagle hadn’t been hurt too badly, just stuck with a minor head wound, which gave him a mild concussion, but he’d be alright. The man had grinned at him as soon as he’d come to, assuaging quite a few of his worries. Of course, Snake definitely knew he was fine when that mouth of his had opened up. “We are so f***ed,” was the verdict, said with a cheeky grin. He’d given the room a once over with hazy eyes, ones that came back around to settle on the medic’s own face. “Sit tight,” Snake had answered back gruffly, and the man promptly fell unconscious. There was no time for anything other than to slap him back awake before he was called away to help elsewhere.

Now, he finds himself alongside Wolf, watching as soldier after soldier falls to the ground, each fatally wounded. He catalogues all their injuries, even those of the opposing side. Sometimes, he just can’t help it. Snake also does a head count, observing the weapons and numbers that don’t work in their favor. It’s about five to one, with more hostiles pouring in with each one they take down. 

He spots Fox making his way closer, dragging a wounded soldier along behind him. Snake recognizes the incapacitated man as Bear, a good friend of theirs. Ben’s looking a little out of sorts, gaze focused on the battle raging before him. Bear’s prone figure leaves a trail of blood in their wake that cuts across the other splatters and trails of crimson, more already layering over as soldiers fall. Snake wonders how much of it is Fox’s, he can’t tell exactly from where he is, but there’s definitely something up with the spy. Damn them and their stupid ability to hide injuries and mask body language. Whatever the injury, Snake knows he could use the help. As he’s giving them cover fire, there’s a nudge at his side. It’s Eagle, the idiot. He’d somehow managed to crawl his way over, and is now looking stupidly determined to join the fight. Snake turns to tell him off. 

That’s when it happens. 

Everyone on the battlefield feels it, the shift. The sense that something that had been building up was now coming to fruition, and  _ some  _ people are screwed. Fox, of course, had known. He’d seen, watched and observed. Even then, he wasn’t sure when exactly Alex made his entrance, but he certainly did notice when the thug he was about to shoot made an unexpected disappearance from his sight line. Said thug had shot down a friend, and he’d been preparing to return the favor.

Cub had done it for him, Fox grins at the thought. He then leans down to take Bear’s pulse, and finds the man is still alive, albeit with a bullet in his abdomen. Knowing where everyone’s position is was part of the job, and he knows Snake is close enough. He watches the show, dragging a groaning Bear across to the medic. 

Alex is amazing, deadly, the finely honed weapon he is made out to be. It makes Ben sick on good days, ready to do something incredibly stupid to MI6 on bad ones. Today is not a good day. He’d known, even as soldier after soldier had gone down, that they’d be fine, because Alex was in the building. The boy is just that good. Fox looks at him now though, at those dead eyes and inexplicably fast attacks on the enemy—and he wonders if there really is any boy left in there at all.

He registers everyone else realizing the results of what he’d been watching the whole time. The unharmed SAS soldiers now outnumber the living opposition. Everything seems to stop, especially when they discover the source, their savior. Alex doesn’t look like Alex of course, he looks like whatever his cover identity was, he looks like a well trained spy in action.

Coming up behind one, using the enemy’s own gun against five of them, he aims carefully. A knife going through the thug’s chest before anyone could blink, and then the rest are dealt with quickly. He stands, blood spattered across his clothes, surrounded by a pile of bodies, and looks at them.

“Now, let’s get to work, shall we?”

He explains who he is, or rather, who he’s pretending to be for their sakes, though it isn’t that far off. Agent R, he introduces himself as his eyes linger just a bit longer on Fox than they do everyone else. He says he knows where the hostages were taken, and that the place isn’t on their list, they have no good reason to doubt him and Fox confirms his story, so K-Unit is chosen to go with him. It was originally their job to free the hostages afterall, and they are doing better than most of the other Units (Eagle remains steadily adamant that he’s okay enough for battle). 

So this is what Fox was hiding, though Wolf suspects this is only the half of it. He doesn’t pry, simply takes charge and tries not to let his temper flare when the newcomer attempts the same thing as well. He makes sure the spy knows that the only reason he’s trusting him is on Fox’s good word, and that _he_ is the one in charge here and Agent R is to do as he says and nothing more. The man only seems amused by this, and Wolf clenches his teeth, gestures for said spy to show them where to go.

Shortly after they turn down a hallway, R whistles, and Wolf tenses, only to find himself in the presence of  _ children _ . Twin boys to be exact. The man bends down to whisper to them, and the two happily scamper away. Behind them, back towards their downed comrades who would surely be of help to the kids.

“Found them wandering around, must’ve slipped through the cracks.” Is the muttered response. 

Wolf frowns, but lets it go.

The first thing that Snake notices about Agent R is that he’s wounded. It’s a bullet wound to the arm, straight through, with some ragged cloth and gauze wrapped around it. He watches the fibers turn from the darkness of dried blood, to bright red freshness and back again. It’s as they’re climbing through some rubble to get to a hold in a wall—a shortcut, as R puts it—that Snake decides it has gone on long enough. The spy brushes against pieces of debris, damaging further the poorly done bandages. 

Soldiers have better self preservation skills, is what he decides. When they get to the other side, past the rubble and through the hole, he puts his foot down.

“Alright, that’s enough. That arm of yours needs medical attention stat. Let me have a look at it.”

The man merely turns to look at him, eyes boring through and expression neutral. Everything stops. Snake stares right back for as long as he dares. A moment, two, then R is grunting his assent moving forward, arm extended.

They sit down on a chunk of wall that didn’t make it to the side they just came through. Wolf quietly gesturing the rest of his unit into a semicircle to keep watch, just in case. The agent silently observes, not making a sound as Snake gets to work. 

Looking at the wound, he’s honestly surprised his patient is still standing, still moving, still able to fight. He must’ve lost a lot of blood by now, if the stuff spattered along his clothes and clear attempts at healing and re-healing are any indication. Snake finishes up, with orders against any more physical activity for R’s arm, and to keep it protected with the makeshift sling. It’s not his best work, but it’ll do, for now.

Wolf knows the moment he’s done of course, not just because of the lecture, but also because he’s been keeping a very close eye on them the whole time. Snake finds it only mildly insulting. Fox was watching too, actually, though he suspects for different reasons. Eagle looks a little too out of it to be watching anything, but he’s coherent enough for a poorly disguised huff of laughter when Snake finishes his “suggestions” for R.

“Mr.Mama Bear isn’t happy,” Eagle sing-songs, putting extra emphasis on the ‘happy’. His mind clears enough to produce words, commentary and dialogue, not so much intelligent or even sensical input, but humorous all the same. He has the sudden urge to make his grumpy teammates laugh, especially the new arrival. This ‘Agent R’ will be a hard egg to crack, but Eagle’s nothing if not persistent.

“Snakey Snakey, why don’t you give  _ me _ more attention, hmmm?” He grins, sidling up to the man as they continue on. “Ack, I’m dying. It’s a serious head wound, gasp, blunt farce trauma.” He clutches his chest dramatically, wails.

The medic rolls his eyes, and they keep on in silence. Eagle pouts, they turn a corner and Wolf engages first, as he’s in the lead. It’s only two guards, nothing he can’t handle.

“Hey Wolfey,” Eagle says, drawing out the ‘e’ sound. 

“What?” said soldier growls, taking down the first thug with a few quick blows. 

“Ooh, I’m so  _ scared _ .” 

The second guard falls hard, Wolf stands up from where he’d tackled the hostile. He grins once, viciously. “You should be.”

“Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin!” Eagle cackles, running a little ways ahead, only to trip over the arm of Wolf’s second opponent. He stumbles, catching himself against the wall. Their ‘fearless leader’ who’d been breathing deeply to keep his temper in check—snorts in amusement.

“Better watch yourself, old buddy, you’re no longer in your prime.” Fox slides in, sly and mischievous as ever. Eagle splutters, insulted.

“And you are?” Wolf can’t help it. The spy counters his raised brow with one of his own.

“I’m more flexible and athletic than any of you will ever be.”

“At your physical peak, eh? Well you know what that means, it’s all downhill from there.” Snake joins in,  _ finally,  _ because why not? No one thought he would get involved, yet here they are, and Eagle feels nothing but triumphant about it.

  
  


* * *

  
  


“Agent R,” he tells them, smiling a fake smile, “I’m the one who provided the intell that brought you guys here. My cover got blown and they captured me.” He shrugs, like it’s no big deal, gesturing to show that clearly, he escaped. “I know where the hostages are, and it’s definitely not on your list. I can lead you there, if you’d like.”

Wolf is a bit of trouble, at first. Then Fox vouches for him, and he’s still not quite sure what to do about that. Seeing Ben again is...complicated. They’ve known each other for years, gone on several missions together too. He was the only one who never gave up on Alex, the only one there to remind him of right and wrong, and that what MI6 was doing,  _ is _ doing, definitely isn’t right.

They got separated for that exact reason months ago, neither seeing the other since. A lot can change in that time, Alex knows, and now seeing Fox again, with K-Unit no less, it brings up bad memories. Old  _ feelings  _ and resentments, things he’s definitely not supposed to have. He’s been told he’s a weapon, treated as a weapon, turned  _ into  _ a weapon. The objectification alone, it just—he doesn’t think about it.

Everything went bad soon after he and Ben were split up, it was long after Cairo and MI6 lost what little leverage they had left, living leverage that is. Blunt had plenty of other ways to keep him in line.

Jack was dead, the pleasures were dead, and Alex was so, so tired. Utterly broken, Blunt’s perfect little spy. Devoid of emotion, ready to die.

Except he wouldn’t, he didn’t. Time and time again, he was pushed to his limits. It was almost a game, once he might’ve even laughed about it. Every intelligence agency in the world used him at some point or another.

Each mission was suicide-gaurenteed, and each one he came back from in various states. There’s a spectrum, invented just for him. The Fatal Wound Spectrum, he’d muttered it darkly when no one was supposed to be listening, when he’d felt that spark, that spark of  _ something _ . Thinking back on Razim’s so-called pain scale and how that man had gotten his way after all. A long time ago it would have made him furious, now he just brushes it off, stops  _ thinking _ and starts  _ doing _ . It’s what has made him so efficient.

Once they realized how little support they could get away with giving him, they just stopped. 

At first, Blunt had been furious to have his ‘property’ returned to him in such states of damage, but then he saw the effect it had on Alex, the increased skill, pain tolerance, and honed ability, after that the man actually welcomed it. To have the greatest operative to ever enter the field under his command, to watch as MI6’s renown grew among various agencies across the globe. Favors they owed, power he then held. He and Alex had never gotten along, and when the Pleasures were killed in a car crash ‘accidentally’, Blunt finally had all the power when MI6 became Alex’s legal guardian. Alex saw his delight in watching the ‘rebellious teenage spy’ submit to him, in watching the once ‘fearless’ Alex Rider be destroyed and degraded, turned into the perfect little weapon at Alan’s beck and call.

No one stopped it, no one cared about the weapon, about the person, about Alex. He was fine with it, he told himself. If he’s never fine then he’s always fine. It has no meaning to him anymore. They all contributed to his pain, mission after mission.

It was like they were competing to kill him.

A game, sick and twisted and ugly, but it was his life, and still is. He’s grown to accept it, to excel in it. After all, he already lost everything, long ago.

Now, he’s just numb. He hates that nothingness, it irks him in the dark recesses of his mind that gets free reign in unconsciousness, with only himself to seeth at. Then, and only then, does he have no choice but to allow it. He despises the void both because it keeps him alive physically, instinct winning out over the other part—and because that part is put away. It does keep him mentally ‘dead’ though, or as close as he can get to it. Alex supposes beggars can’t be choosers.

He’s a pawn, a ball, tossed from side to side. No one has the heart to kill him, to end it, no one ever has. He’s too useful to the intelligence agencies, and has dealt too much damage to the enemy to warrant even a quick death. His own mind is turned against him, so called ‘luck’ keeping him alive.

It’s Snake that draws him from his dark thoughts, the reminiscing of his past. The medic stares him in the eyes, defiant in his care. So Alex let’s him have his way, sitting down to observe as the medic gets to work. Wolf seems to have improved in the leadership area, still untrusting as can be, though. Alex meets his unabashedly staring gaze head on, forcing the man to look away.  _ Smirking, what an odd thing to do, _ Alex thinks, the expression feels foreign on his lips. Fox catches it, because of course he does. Alex knew Ben was side-eyeing him too, staring at the wounded arm, at his ratty clothes and the blood, at  _ him.  _

Avoiding the man’s gaze, he looks back towards Snake who’s just finishing up with his arm.

“No more knife throwing and gun shooting for you, Sir. The things you’ve put that arm through—you shouldn’t even be conscious right now. That sling will work, sure, but only so long as you  _ keep it safe…” _

Alex tunes out, smiles thinly in acknowledgement when the flow of words comes to an end, and stands up. Noting the less foggy look in Eagle’s eyes as he does so. Alex isn’t surprised at what happens next. 

“Mr. Mama Bear isn’t happy…” The comment is met with reactions that show tolerance, and he figures that concussed or not, this is a regular occurrence.

“Snakey Snakey, why don’t you give  _ me _ more attention, hmmm?” The soldier’s words are backed by action as he gets obnoxiously into Snake’s face. “Ack, I’m dying. It’s a serious head wound, gasp, blunt farce trauma,” 

Alex can  _ see  _ the moment where the medic resists the urge to correct his teammate’s choice of words. Eagle knows very well it’s supposed to be ‘blunt  _ force _ trauma’. A younger Alex might’ve said something about said soldier  _ being  _ a farce. Now he’s just content to observe.

He’s never known Eagle very well. Wolf is the one who’d made his time with them in the SAS a living h***, and Fox is well, Fox. It seems the humorous one of the bunch has been holding out on him, Alex can’t say he’s disappointed.

Snake had said for him to do nothing, and he supposes there’s no harm in hanging back. Despite everything, Alex knows that he’s among professionals, that Wolf actually does pay attention to his surroundings. That Fox has his back, and Snake is watching out for them all. Even Eagle moves into a defensive stance when they encounter their first opposition.

“Hey Wolfey,” the drawn out high pitched ‘e’ is grating on their ears. 

“What.” Wolf doesn’t hesitate to do his job. Alex realizes that he’s actually feeling  _ safe. _ It’s dangerous, vulnerable, and he slams his guard right back up. 

“Ooh, I’m so  _ scared _ .” Eagle grins.

“You should be.”

These soldiers are also dangerous, some part of him whispers,. Alex counters it with a million paranoid thoughts of his own.

“Not by the hair on my chinny chin chin!” 

Wolf has the same temper, clearly, but Alex sees that the man has at least tried to learn how to get a hold of it.

Watching their body language when Eagle trips, it’s interesting to see. While none of them are any less focused on the task at hand—on the mission—they are still able to enjoy themselves. It sends something deeply nostalgic running through him at the sight, one that he doesn’t quite know how to deal with. So he doesn’t, just pushes it down and away, opens his mouth to tell them off. Nothing comes out.

“Better watch yourself old buddy, you’re no longer in your prime.” Fox’s addition is unexpected, but not really surprising.

“And you are?” The exchange between the two—SAS unit leader and MI6 spy—Alex finds himself watching in fascination, feeling camaraderie in the air. It takes him a moment to identify it, as it’s appearance is so foreign to him.

“I’m more flexible and athletic than any of you will ever be.”

“At your physical peak, eh?” Snake says.  _ I have to say, if this is it, then I’m disappointed,  _ the thought comes unbidden to Alex’s mind, words an echo of something he’d said...a year ago while on a mission with Ben. “Well you know what that means, it’s all downhill from there,” the medic finishes.

From the looks on their faces it’s clear Snake is not usually one to join in, Alex wouldn’t have pegged him as such.

Eagle crows, and the look in his eyes spells trouble for a certain Agent R. “What about you, hmmm? Hiding in the shadows like a bat?” The soldier turns his attention abruptly, getting in Alex’s face, fake-stumbling into his path.

He walks on, staunchly ignoring the hyperactive man, dodging his advances with ease. The first time Eagle lands flat on his face at Alex’s heels, the action is so fast, it takes the others a moment to register it. Snake gives him a look, he shrugs nonchalantly. The downed ‘teammate’ appears stunned for a moment, but he just gets right back up again, and continues.

“Brooding like he took lessons from the Batman himself. Look at that, he’s practically blending in with the shadows too, it’s unnatural, man. I wonder if that’s his role model? The big bad bat? Do you think...”

“Cut it out with the fanboying Eagle, we all know you’re a DC fanatic.” Fox interjecting again, with an air of exasperation mostly genuine of the sort that siblings might have.

“Just when I thought he couldn’t get any geekier…” there’s Snake, muttering not so subtly under his breath. They are a great deal less shocked by this than they were before.

They collectively ignore Eagle’s dramatically offended, “Hey!” in response.

Alex is still wrapping his head around how well they fit together, only now realizing how much of a fifth wheel he must’ve been.

“Anyway, ‘Agent R’ probably doesn’t even know who that is. Not everyone has weird obsessions with bloody American  _ heros,  _ or insane unit-mates who do.” Wolf, acerbic as always. “The blasted things aren’t even real!”

Eagle fakes a choking sound from his position on the floor—the third meeting with it so far. Alex is conveniently a good six feet away from him, stoic like the man he’s being so rudely compared to.

“Come on now,” the soldier picks himself up, “why so  _ serious _ ?”

Grinning features fill Alex’s vision, and he resists his  _ killer  _ instincts. Steps faltering, Eagle’s smug face fading from his sight. Curly brown hair, amused features,  _ Tom.  _ His best friend would’ve made that joke, his ghost now making it for him. The apparition in Alex’s consciousness, a suppressed thing. 

The air stills, only Fox catching on to his brief lapse in focus. Armed thugs replacing Eagle’s cocky smirk. His fellow spy yanks him down as they fire, Alex’s mind still temporarily lost.

_ Weapons  _ don’t get friends,  _ weapons  _ don’t have them. That’s because if  he  doesn’t start out as a  _ weapon _ ,  he has to  _ lose  _ everyone  he cares about first. That’s what happened, that’s how it goes.

Now, as they are attacked once again by the guards right outside their destina ti on, Alex is morbidly grateful for it. Those skills are what keeps him alive, are what keeps  _ his _ unit alive. Most of them don’t know who he is. Parts of them don’t even trust him. Yet, as they fight, K-Unit has his back. Snake fiercely protective at his left, the wounded side. Fox at his right, presence stable in a way Alex hasn’t felt in months. Wolf in the lead, keeping a close eye on them all even as he fights. Then there’s Eagle, a little crazy, but just as willing to wreak havoc on the enemy as he is to tease his teammates.

The battle ends quickly and Alex steps over the downed thugs, making his way to the door they were guarding. He opens his mouth,

“I am whatever Gotham needs me to be.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


She’d known something was off, when she interrogated him before. His behavior had fit with what she learned, what she knew. How he’d acted years ago. It didn’t fit with his reputation however, nor his capabilities. He’d been holding back, hardly any heat to his words. He didn’t  _ really  _ mean it. Wasn’t actually vulnerable, influenced, not like how he was by her predecessors. Rothman wants to have another go at it. 

She is proud though, to look like her mother, that even the great Alex Rider couldn’t see those faint traces of the b****** of a father she’d had. Said traces were very few for sure, made even more scarce with a little carefully applied make-up. Granted, both her parents were idiots who’d fallen to a  _ boy,  _ but it was her mother who’d raised her. Both are dead now anyway, and she wants  _ vengeance.  _

These are the thoughts in her mind as she lays the trap, watches Rider and his newfound crew move through her compound.  _ They think they’re being stealthy.  _ Madame Rothman will not underestimate him, nor will she underestimate herself. Tight situation after tight situation, the boy has gotten out of, all because people refused to kill him right away. This time will be different.

She will not make the same mistake as her predecessors, Rider must be dealt with first.

“General?”

“What?” she snaps, turning.

“Everything’s ready. Where do you…?”

Ah, right. The extra precautions. “Over there.” Her lackey drags them to where she gestures. “Get my assassins, it’s time.”

Everything moves into place at just the right moment, as Rider ventures down the hall, leading his group of liabilities. She watches through cameras placed strategically throughout the passageway.

As soon as they're in position, Rothman sends the signal. Walls, rising up from the ground, shouts of alarm from the soldiers, likewise screams for help from the hostages when the enclosed space begins filling.

Filling with salt.

Rider will die, just as her father did. Trapped, begging for help, dying the ignoble death of a foolish man. 

The thing is though, her lackeys had made a mistake when setting the bombs previous. There’s a hole in the ground on her floor, the one on top of Rider’s position. She’d been able to secure strong grating from...somewhere, but it would have looked too suspicious if it was already in place above the trap spot beforehand. The bars close as white grains flow slowly into the space from each side of her captives.

That’s her downfall.

Rider leaps up, higher than any of them could possibly hope to. He clears the metal with seconds to spare—almost as if it were timed, as if he’d known. The look in his eyes says he did.

She growls in frustration. He must’ve evaded her snipers too, from the looks of it. Four knife handles sticking out from certain points along the walls. Her assassins are probably dead. He definitely knew.

Julia’s thugs attack as she gestures, and she draws two new guns. Smoke bombs erupt, blocking her vision, she waits enough for some to clear. Shoots into the chaos, her aim impeccable as the boy’s ability to dodge. He makes quick work of her people, making sure to throw them in the path of her own bullets—she only manages to clip him.

The smoke is short lived, and is gone completely by the time the last of her thugs drop to the ground. 

“Scorpia took everything from you, Rider. I will not be the last of your enemies. We’ll never forget, never forgive, never stop until you’re dead.” She laughs, coming up to him with a gun, his acquired one pointed at her as well. 

Julia Rothman moves in to stab with the knife she’d held behind her back. Agent Rider is too quick. She’d known that too, so even as she thrusts forward the blade, and her opponent moves to grab the gun. She fires, killing two hostages instantly just as his own hands wrap around her wrists.

His eyes blaze, and she smirks at him. He’d been going for a mostly quick death, but pulls out a knife of his own after that, shifting to do so in the blink of an eye. Then she’s falling, falling, falling. Down into the whiteness. Stomach as brutally cut open as possible, there’s no hope for her to survive. Her ears ring, and pain is all she registers.

“Guess you’re salty on the outside too. Would you like some hand sanitizer with that? All the cleaning in the world wouldn’t make you any better. Guess it runs in the family,  _ Razim.” _

There’s a glint to his eye, a set to his posture, she sees these also, in her periphery. His voice, all of it, the real him. The hidden him. This whole time, and all she gets is a glimpse, right before death. 

She knows he means every word.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Pleeeeaaase tell me what you thought  
> R&R makes my day!  
> A trillion thanks to my beta teeelsie  
> Who did so amazing work on this monstrosity  
> It’s definitely not my best work  
> But it is most certainly the longest fic I have ever written in my life  
> So many words!  
> Also, let me know how the snark worked out  
> I actually googled the word so it could be as accurate as possible  
> Then I just went with sarcasm  
> But still, I sincerely hope it lives up to the expectations of whoever gave me that lovely prompt
> 
> Stay safe everyone!  
> -Silver


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